


Sensations

by captain_sassy_socks



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, Food Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:56:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22423708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captain_sassy_socks/pseuds/captain_sassy_socks
Summary: She takes another sip from her mug and observes the man bustling around in her kitchen.There, he is, her object of ardent longing and the reason for her insatiable appetite.+++ EDIT: one-shot evolved into multi-chapter / Enjoying The View is now Ch 1 / Rating raised to E +++
Relationships: Samantha "Sam" Carter/Jack O'Neill
Comments: 35
Kudos: 83





	1. Enjoying The View

Coffee mug in hand, Sam leans against the door frame at the entrance to her kitchen. It’s a beautiful Sunday morning. Birds are chirping outside, announcing the arrival of spring.

Images from last night materialize in her well-rested and carefree mind. Passionate kisses, exploring touches, and eloquent declarations of love create a smile with such a force that the muscles in her face start to ache. She doesn’t even try to fight her happiness.

She takes another sip from her mug and observes the man bustling around in her kitchen.

There, he is, her object of ardent longing and the reason for her insatiable appetite.

His silvery, gray hair sticks out in all directions. A shadow of a beard graces his chin. Deep in concentration, his brows furrow while his hands execute the meticulous task of preparing pancakes.

Oh yeah, his hands. They are incredibly skilled and can play her body like a harp, one string at a time, or all at once. He creates a crescendo of abandonment, desire, and delight that satisfies her needs and keeps her warm in the lonely hours when they are separated. A maestro in and outside the bedroom.

His skin is paler nowadays since he rides a desk at Homeworld Command. It’s a pity, however, a small price to pay for a chance at happiness. She intends to spend a considerable amount of time at the cabin during summer.

She can almost see the muscles in his back, moving beneath his white undershirt. They are still firm. She likes to dig her fingernails into them in the throes of passion. If his guttural sounds are any indication, he loves it as well.

There is a slight swell at his belly. ‘Love handles’ describes it best because she loves to handle and massage them. Sometimes, he feels a bit insecure when it comes to his aging body. However, she has her ways to reassure him that she loves and craves all of him, each wrinkle, each scar, and every ounce of weight.

Her gaze travels lower to his most remarkable asset. Right now, a hilarious pair of light blue boxer shorts with Homer Simpson imprinted on the material conceals it. It doesn’t surprise her anymore. His taste in fashion has always been questionable at best.

Her brain supplies an image show from throughout all the years they have known each other.

On the first day in the briefing room, she got a promising glimpse of what he was hiding underneath his dress pants. When he walked out of the room, her eyes were glued to him. His dress blues accentuated his physical appearance, a lean body with taut muscles, and hugged him in all the right places. On the way to the change room, she imagined how he would look like in his BDU.

She didn’t have to wonder for a long time. On more than one occasion, his pants tightened the right amount when he crawled through the dirt. They stuck like a second skin when he was drenched to the bone. The material stretched over him quite enticingly when they moved into position, waiting to spring into action at any moment. More often than she would ever dare to admit, she wished that she was allowed to touch him without restraint. The strict boundaries within their military relationship increased the burning desire.

To this day, she doesn’t understand why he prefers baggy clothes. They don’t do him justice.

Then there was the debacle with Loki and the clone. The one thing she remembers vividly is the moment he reappeared in his bedroom. Clad only in sweatpants, it was a sight to behold. He lay stretched out before her like a buffet, his best asset pointed invitingly heavenward. Her fingers itched to touch him. How she refrained from just doing so is still a mystery to her.

But her favorite sight is right in front of her, domestic and intimate. Only for her eyes.

“Enjoying the view?” His question pulls her out of her daydreaming. The gleam in his eyes tells her that he knows exactly what she was admiring.

She doesn’t get flustered these days. “You know, I do.” With one shoulder, she pushes herself off the door frame and saunters over to him. His eyes follow her every move.

She stops at his side and leans in. She greets him with a light kiss that starts at his shoulder, roams over his neck, and ends at his earlobe. For a moment, her fingers toy with the waistband before they disappear beneath and knead the familiar firmness.

He turns his head and captures her in a searing kiss that is on the verge of spiraling out of control. Their tongues dance around each other in a breath-taking expedition. One of his hands smooths over the hemline of his dress shirt, which spans over her backside. His fingers dip underneath, only to discover bare skin.

An excited groan rises from deep within him.

“Eyes to the frying pan, General,” she smirks against his lips.

“Shit,” he curses, breaks the kiss, and tries to concentrate on his main task, preparing breakfast.

Today, the pancakes will be a bit more on the burnt side.

As if she cares about such a trivial detail when she can satiate her hunger otherwise.


	2. Savoring The Taste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coated in as much whipped cream as possible, she scoops up a grape.

The stack of pancakes is placed in the middle of the table. Only one got charred on one side, the rest were baked to perfection, golden brown and soft.

He is proud of having accomplished the task without further interruptions.

She helps herself and transfers one pancake onto her plate. There is a selection of toppings available; apple sauce, maple syrup, strawberry syrup and, of course, whipped cream. A small bowl with grapes and peeled tangerines complete the arrangement.

She insisted on some healthy options. However, a look at his plate tells her it might be in vain, crispy bacon and a pancake soaked in syrup dominate the scene.

Creativity is the key to get some fruits into his stomach.

An alluring thought crosses her mind, which leads to a wicked grin on her face. Her fingers fish for a slice of tangerine and pop it into her mouth. Her tongue encircles the piece before she bites down with delight. The juices flow over her palate and down her throat. It tastes sweet and luscious, like a tangy summer cocktail at the cabin.

She craves for more, a combination of salty, masculine, and slightly bitter.

For years, she longed to lap up the beads of sweat that collected at the nape of his neck under the bright sun on an alien planet. She imagined the texture of his flesh and, in her mind, compared the taste to seaweed mixed with a fresh ocean breeze. When they sat side by side and surrounded by trees at a campfire, she wondered if his skin would absorb the smell from the wilderness, if he would taste smoky and woody like pine. She even dared to dream about his uniqueness dripping on her tongue. Bitter? Soapy? Acrid?

She doesn’t need to wonder anymore, she experienced it all and still lusts for more. Her taste buds only reject the offering when he consumed too much garlic.

The tingling sensation of anticipation stirs between her legs.

Unsuspecting of her plan, he attacks his serving like a hungry wolf.

Contrary to the battlefield opposite her, she takes her time. Unhurried, she sprinkles five dollops of whipped cream on her pancake, nicely arranged in a circle. On top, she dribbles strawberry syrup and completes her piece of art with five grapes.

It’s a pity that it’s not yet the season for strawberries or cherries.

Another slice of tangerine finds its way between her lips. “Hmm…,” she sucks on it impishly.

His eyes flicker to her mouth for a second. The ghost of recognition passes over his face before he takes another bite from his own food.

They already played this game in another place at another time. Her skin starts to prickle.

Coated in as much whipped cream as possible, she scoops up a grape. Slowly, she brings it to her parted lips and encloses it. With an approving hum, it disappears.

His raised eyebrow questions her.

She smiles coyly. She is on the right track.

A tiny, stubborn blob of cream sticks to the corner of her mouth. “Oops.” The tip of her tongue darts out and sweeps it clean.

He gazes at her face with heightened interest. His fork floats mid-air. Forgotten.

She drags another grape through the toppings on her plate and lifts it up. She examines the inviting creation while the syrup trickles down her fingers. Her lips engulf the fruit and nibble on it with gusto.

His Adam’s apple bobs. An audible gulp pleases her ears.

One by one, her tongue swirls around each digit, licking off the sweet stickiness. She proceeds with due diligence. The process reminds her of his birthday last year. The private celebration involved cake and chocolate syrup. It got pretty messy but was oh so delicious. Her mischievous eyes never break his gaze.

He squirms in his seat. He obviously remembers the same occasion.

Heat begins to spread throughout her body and makes her glow.

Underneath the table, her foot crawls up his shin. She relishes in massaging and rubbing along the taut muscles. Her big toe draws circles on his soft skin.

He sucks in a breath. Unconsciously, he worries his bottom lip between his teeth.

“What?” Feigned innocence drips from each letter. Another grape finds its way into her awaiting mouth. Her heartbeat races as the desire to feel his touch claws at her skin.

His eyes narrow. Arousal starts to cloud them.

She picks up another slice and suckles on it. The juices squirt onto her tongue, causing a few drops to slide down her chin. She closes her eyes and moans at the sensation.

Her chest heaves in anticipation.

“Carterrr,” he growls, primal and possessive. The color of his eyes has turned into vibrant obsidian, his pupils are dilated. His fingers grip the silverware until his knuckles turn white.

She acknowledges his misery with a smirk. Agonizingly slow, her foot moves higher toward his groin. She has him right where she wants him, where she needs him.

At her mercy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lovely commenter mentioned 'Jack plus syrup' and my muse accepted the challenge.


	3. Craving The Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His wiggling eyebrows convey a clear message as the tempting suggestion hovers between them.
> 
> “If I can’t have my breakfast in peace, I’ll have to eat you.”

The clatter of silverware startles her. Before she can process the commotion, he has rounded the table and hauled her against his chest. His tongue invades her and muffles her high-pitched shriek. At the same time, his hands roam over her back and buttocks, leaving a trail of sizzling skin behind. Merciless fingers knead her flesh and press her closer to him. The unmistakable sign of his arousal pushes into her abdomen, he is already half-hard and eager to grow larger.

His insistent lips swallow her moan.

When she recovers from her initial surprise, she joins in their energetic exploration. One hand scrapes over his scalp, whereas the other encircles his waist.

For years, more than an accidental shoulder bump or a random brush of fingers was not allowed by regulations. They shared body heat in the face of imminent death and inspected each other for injuries in the name of survival. Their duties and obligations always stayed at the forefront of their minds.

It worked well until their encounter with Hathor and the memory recall device. Trapped inside the Goa’uld compound and, in an attempt to remain undetected, he crossed the line into her intimate space. The way his fingers covered her mouth and clasped around her throat, the way his groin pressed into her backside, the way his breath tickled her ear. Only two thin layers of fabric separated them and magnified the experience. For weeks afterward, the mere thought of that moment set her on fire.

He had imprinted himself on her skin. Forever.

Ever since that mission, she craved his touch. She often speculated whether his caresses would be tender or rough, arousing or soothing, swift or leisurely. Where there was admiration once, a full-blown crush burgeoned. Several other missions muddied the waters further until her need overwhelmed her, and she sought release in another man’s arms.

In vain.

After years of being touched-starved, any contact – by hand, mouth, or tongue – still has the ability to quieten her constantly analyzing and assessing brain. It doesn’t matter if it’s skin on skin or if barriers of clothes stand between them. Every time, the physical connection reassures her that it’s not a dream or an illusion.

Her fingers claw at his undershirt, a frenzy attempt to free it from his boxers. She needs to feel him underneath her fingertips, raw and sinful. She anchors herself against his frame and gyrates her hips, multiplying the flames of arousal in several parts of her body.

He bucks and gives off a choked groan. His fingers dig almost painfully into her flesh. He breaks away, rests his forehead against hers, and commands in-between gasps, “Countertop.”

Her hands stop. She leans back and scrutinizes him. His wiggling eyebrows convey a clear message as the tempting suggestion hovers between them.

“If I can’t have my breakfast in peace, I’ll have to eat you.” The huskiness in his voice pleases her.

She untangles herself from his embrace, grabs the fruit bowl, and saunters over to the place as ordered. With almost feline grace, she hops onto the cold surface, a welcoming sensation on her overheated skin. Barely covered by his dress shirt, she spreads her legs and, with a come-hither-look, invites him in.

He puts the whipped cream and maple syrup down beside her and steps in. Immediately, his nimble fingers pop open the two buttons holding the shirt together. He slides the material off her shoulders and down her arms until it lands somewhere on the kitchen floor. His hungry gaze roams over her body, closely followed by the pad of his middle finger. The journey starts at her chin, trails down her throat, meanders over her chest, ambles across her stomach, and ends between her legs. Goosebumps rise under his tantalizing caresses.

Curious, the digit dips between her folds. A low growl approves of the wetness he discovers. The expression on his face mirrors her own, voracious and clouded with desire.

He takes the whipped cream and marks the path for his mouth to follow. A dab lands on her lips. Tempted, the tip of her tongue peeks out and steals the delicious treat.

He narrows his eyes in feigned annoyance and continues with due diligence. He coats her breasts, paying special attention to her nipples. His fingers linger at the underside and brush against the swell.

She arches her back as a wave of desire ripples through her.

He draws a straight line across her stomach, starting on her chest and ending at her pubic hair. “Don’t,” she warns him. Early on in their relationship, they established the no-go areas for food play. Instead, he buries a tiny grape in her navel and covers it with an additional layer of cream.

An image of his tongue digging up the treasure floats in front of her eyes and causes another surge of wetness to pool in her nether regions.

With a smug grin, he contemplates his next move. He sketches a series of illegible symbols on her left inner thigh.

Unadulterated lust overtakes his features. He groans at the exquisite sight in front of him. Slowly, he locks his fevered eyes with her and cleans his own fingers with his tongue. The obscene image fans the flame of her arousal and catapults her need to feel his scorching touch to the next level.

He picks up the syrup and drizzles the sweet, sticky liquid over her upper body. She hisses at the cool assault. The brilliant amber flows over her paleness and drips onto the counter. He only stops when she gleams in the late morning sunlight.

His fingers sink into her hips and position her in front of him. “Perfect.” He leans in to claim her.

Her index finger intercepts his advance and presses against his parted lips. Baffled, he blinks. Blindly, she searches for a slice of tangerine. Once she seizes the delicacy, she drags it along her ribcage and swirls it through the sticky mess on her chest. Enticingly, she brushes it along his lips, which are tightly pressed together. He shakes his head like a petulant child, unwilling to accept her offering.

“Please, Jack,” she pouts. Her lower lip quivers while her right heel pokes at the flesh beneath his butt, demanding and encouraging.

His eyes narrow at her, the promise of retaliation flashes through them. Reluctant, he opens his mouth a gap. The piece of fruit disappears inside.

Her fingernails scratch along his jaw and catch an escaping droplet. “Good Generals get a reward.” She bats her eyelashes at him, lifts her fingers to her lips, and savors the sugary delight. Gracefully, she reclines and offers herself to him. “Feast on me.” A plea concealed by a command.

She lays in front of him like a stunning goddess spread out on the altar of sin, equally angelic and devilish.

“So beautiful,” he growls. “All mine.”

His mouth latches onto one breast. Ravenous and zealous, he laps at her skin. His teeth graze and mark her. His tongue swirls around the nipple until it stands erected, eliciting an appreciating hum from her. With the same fervor, he dedicates himself to the task at the other one.

She squirms underneath his onslaught, seeking friction to relieve the aching need between her legs. His hands push her hips down, keeping her firmly in place.

She wants to rush him in his gluttony. “Please, Jack,” she begs him and tries to push him further down. She needs him to touch her where all her overstimulated nerve-endings come together.

He doesn’t budge an inch. He takes his time in tasting the combination of Samantha Carter sprinkled with creamy, fluffy sweetness. His devotion is intoxicating and pure torture. Surrender is her only option.

A wailing sound, unworthy of a Colonel in the United States Air Force, escapes her.

Agonizingly slow, he crosses the planes of her stomach. Her muscles quiver underneath his ministrations. Her head falls back in ecstasy.

At her mound, he pauses and inhales her unique scent. Two fingers part her. He nuzzles her for a moment before he deviates to her thigh.

She whimpers in protest.

Beginning at her knee, he attacks the last portion of cream with relish. He moves upward until he comes face to face with her rosy, slick folds. He kisses and licks, nibbles and sucks through them but avoids the puckering bundle of nerves, the place she craves his touch the most. First one then two fingers enter her, stretch her, teases her. They move together with his greedy tongue.

Due to his unrelenting stimulation, she climbs higher and higher. The muscles in her thighs tense in anticipation. Her breath comes out in puffs. But it’s not enough. She teeters on the brink without falling into the liberating abyss. A little nudge is all it takes. One impatient hand grips his hair and tries to guide his movements.

Without warning, he bites down hard on her clit and sends her off with a strangled cry. A blinding light engulfs her, and the blood rushes through her ears, drowning out all sounds. Her muscles contract around his relentless fingers in wave after wave. Time doesn’t exist as she floats in the space of total bliss. Every single cell in her body merges with the universe.

The sensation becomes divine.

When her senses return, her eyes flutter open and drink him in. His pupils are blown, his nostrils flare, and his lips glisten with the evidence of her pleasure. A truly captivating sight to behold.

Time to make him fall apart inside of her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am curios about what else these two horndogs have planned.


	4. Drowning In Sounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He, the great General Jack O‘Neill, - savior of worlds, victor over several Goa‘uld System Lords, and hero of the Asgards – whines, because she, Colonel Samantha Carter, denies him what he desires most.
> 
> The feeling is empowering and makes her dizzy.

She scoots to the edge of the countertop, her legs trap him between hers. It’s an unnecessary precaution, he won’t run away. His desire to bury himself inside her overrides any higher brain function.

He hasn’t moved a muscle since the balance of power shifted toward her. His breath comes out in short bursts. His hands rest flat against her thighs, the itching need to explore her is palpable. One word from her, and he would spur into action, whatever she decides on. They could go fast and hard, or slow and intimate.

Her need to feel his skin against and beneath her tips the scales. Although, she wouldn’t object to a thorough pounding.

A few smears of cream and syrup stain his undershirt, the last remnants from his feast. She tucks at the gratuitous piece of clothing.

He obeys and discards it.

The coarse, silvery hair on his chest captivate her. It never fails to send a spark of arousal through her when they rub against her bare breasts. Her fingernails scratch through them.

A barely audible sigh passes his lips.

He has never been known to use an abundance of words to express himself. In the field, non-verbal communication is essential since noise can give one’s position away. As part of a frontline team, they quickly learned to read each other’s body language. It was simply a matter of life and death.

Granted, way too often, he cracked a lame or self-deprecating joke to lighten the mood. She always suspected that, on the one hand, it was his way to cope with the grim reality of being a soldier. To this day, she doesn’t want to imagine the horrible things he saw and did during his years in Black Ops. On the other, his strategy often involved to downplay his obvious skills and create a false sense of security among his enemies. The trail of people, humans and aliens alike, who underestimated him and paid the price, is impressive.

He didn’t need many words to communicate with them. A huff at Daniel’s ingenuousness, a supportive and approving hum during Teal’c’s strategic assessments, and a monosyllabic interjection when she confused him with a scientific explanation were his preferred style.

She twists his nipples and is rewarded with a sharp intake of breath.

By now, he is an open book to her. In the beginning of their intimate relationship, she cataloged his reactions, connected the dots, and revised her approach. What excites him? What turns him off? Which touch on which body part brings him the most pleasure? How much pressure should she exercise? Every sigh, moan, or growl functions as an indicator of his mood or state of arousal. Though, there is one sound that is her absolute favorite.

Her fingers drift downward over his soft belly to the waistband of his boxers. For a moment, they linger before they dip beneath, encircle his waist and nudge him closer. She delights in massaging the firm flesh of his buttocks.

Through the thin material, she feels him throbbing against her abdomen. He closes his eyes and rocks his hips, unhurried and lazy. She pinches his butt. He yelps and jerks forward.

Grinning at his reaction, her mouth encloses one nipple and sucks on it. At the same time, her impatient fingers tug down the last piece of clothing separating them, just below mid-thigh, and frees him. She switches to the other nipple and fondles his balls. The leisured swirl of her tongue sets the pace.

One hand moves upward and entangles in her hair.

She nibbles at his skin while two fingers sneak between his legs and rub along his perineum. He widens his stance to give her better access. Gradually, she increases the pressure.

A feral groan hits her ears. His hand tightens his grip in her hair.

Excellent, however, still not the sound she’s aiming for, the one that makes her see stars behind her closed eyelids.

Relentless, she continues her assault on his body. Her teeth graze his chest, and her fingers occupy themselves with stimulating him without touching his erection directly.

He whimpers at her neglect.

She’s getting closer.

Desperation prompts his movements since his throbbing member seeks friction and relief by trying to brush against anything within reach.

She places one last kiss above his heart and leans back, thereby increasing the distance between their bodies. Her touch becomes gentle and light. The pained expression on his face amuses her. His leaking cock entices her.

One hand rummages around the fruit bowl until she finds a plump grape. She picks it up and twirls it through his precum until the little ball is sufficiently coated. With a wicked smile, she pops it into her mouths and chomps on it with pleasure. “God! That tastes incredible!” Her declaration adds to her game of torture.

His knees buckle. He has to steady himself on her shoulders. “Saaam, pleeeease!” he whines.

Oh, there it is, the sweetest sound of all.

He, the great General Jack O‘Neill, - savior of worlds, victor over several Goa‘uld System Lords, and hero of the Asgards – whines, because she, Colonel Samantha Carter, denies him what he desires most.

The feeling is empowering and makes her dizzy.

“What do you need?” she purrs. The pad of her thumb circles his head. “This?” Her fingertips flicker along the underside of the shaft. “This?” Her hands enfold him and pump up and down. A twisting motion enhances his pleasure every other stroke. “Is this what you want? What you crave?”

“Yessss,...” he sighs in utter satisfaction. His head is tilted back, his eyelids flutter.

Abruptly, her hands disengage. His eyes snap open and pierce her. A distorted frown overshadows his flushed features. Her feet have already hooked on his backside before he is able to utter one single word of protest. She props herself on her elbows and drags him toward her until he is positioned at her entrance, barely touching her wet lips. “Or maybe this?” His cock twitches at the alluring sight.

With the help of his hand, he aligns himself. Slowly, he pushes his hips forward until the head disappears between her folds.

One hand shoves his chest. “Ah, ah! I didn’t give you permission to penetrate me.” Her eyes sparkle with mischief. “Ask nicely!”

He lifts her fingers to his lips and kisses each digit. “Please, let me stretch you. Let me fill you.” She pulls him another inch deeper. “Please, let me fuck you.”

She furrows her brows as if she needs to contemplate his proposal. “Hmmm?” He playfully slaps her flank. A giggle bubbles through her. “Since you asked so nicely,” she drawls. “Permission granted.”

He has already buried himself in her warm, tight channel before she even finishes the sentence. His member stretches and fills her, a welcoming and familiar feeling.

Starting with slow strokes, he bends over her. His mouth seizes her in a fiery kiss. His tongue invades her and slides against hers, mimicking the movements of his lower body. Her ankles cross behind his lower back to keep him tight against her. His chest hair tickles her nipples, his groin grinds against her bundle of nerves.

The constant titillation increases her desire to climax again. Another promising orgasm looms on the horizon. Eyes closed in rapture, she arches her back and moans his name, “Jaaaack...” A syllable coaxed out of her in sheer ecstasy.

His greedy mouth latches onto her throat. He nips and sucks along the exposed skin. Vigorous, his thrusts gain momentum.

A jolt of electricity zips through her and pricks her skin. The tingle between her legs expands, the unmistakable herald of her approaching peak. Her fingernails dig into his shoulder blades.

With a low growl, he braces himself on one arm and slams into her with short, rapid thrusts. Beads of sweat form at his hairline. His free hand disappears between their bodies. His middle finger rubs her clit, sloppy and rough.

The combined stimulation results in sensory overload. Beginning in her toes, her orgasm rolls over her like a tsunami. Her inner muscles convulse around his cock as she falls into blissful nothingness.

When she recovers her breath, she tries to regain her bearing. During her short excursion into oblivion, he straightened up, hooked his arms under her legs, and grabbed her hips. He squints his eyes and pants through parted lips. The tension in his muscles is visible. Meanwhile, his pounding loses its steady rhythm. He is chasing his own release.

“General,” she murmurs. His pitch-black, unfocused eyes dart over her face. “Come for me. That’s an order.”

He whimpers and increases the speed. His fingers sink almost painfully into her flesh, whereas the countertop chafes against her spine. After a few frantic plunges, he yanks her toward him, stills, and empties himself with a strangled groan.

Spent, he collapses on top of her. His head rests between her breasts. His gasps for air tickle her skin.

She cushions his weight. He needs a moment to return to the here and now. Her fingers stroke soothingly along the shell of his ear, through his hair and over his shoulders. It always helps to center him. Groggily, he lifts his head and stares into her eyes.

In his post-orgasmic state, which the Japanese call ‘Kenjataimu’, his mellow eyes are unguarded and allow her to see right into his soul. Every scar, every crack, every patch; they all lay bare for her to tend to, to mend and to rebuild.

Their love works like a balsam for their way too often damaged, yet still hopeful hearts.

She places a tender kiss on his lips. “Shower?”

He grins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for "sticking" with me in this delicious adventure.

**Author's Note:**

> Enjoy the view. More to come (pardon the pun).


End file.
